“This House Still Has People in it.” Donozziyae McCray, (2020).

June 22, 2020

A sigh, 

A shudder, 

A whimper; 

The crystalline windows don’t keep the cold out like they used to; 

A blanket knitted out of spite, draped across shoulders that stretch with the horizon; 

The carpet greets stiff digits in an embrace like old friends, cheeks flooded with glee; 

This space keeps Gumby-length legs in check, 

Bound by the space they call home; 

A well loved mug, 

Stained with years of steeped and sugared delights; 

They say artificial warmth combats the cold of an empty chair, 

Gravity keeps the wear and tear pristine; 

Dog-eared pages cling to binding, 

A chapter looks to God, 

waiting for the next time hungry eyes demand a distraction; 

Lining the walls is baby’s breath, 

Their heads weighed down in guilt for their betrayal; 

Flowers swell with upbeat melodies, 

But this room bloats with bitter melodrama; 

This house still has people in it;